


Oh Barren Valley

by Rarae



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Badass Jaskier | Dandelion, Barely described fight scene, Bigotry & Prejudice, Eventual Fluff, Feelings, Hair Braiding, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nobody Likes Witchers, POV Geralt, POV Jaskier, Poisoning, Pre Jaskier/Geralt, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Self-Hatred, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, They're getting there, Witcher racism, i played fast and loose with canon, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22484407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rarae/pseuds/Rarae
Summary: Geralt really should have better memorized witcher warning sigils and maybe all of this could have been avoided.-or-Jaskier and Geralt enter a town with a major grudge against witchers and a vow to wipe them out of existence. Plenty of angst with a fluffy ending.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 967





	Oh Barren Valley

The day was hot and muggy, in a way that seemed to fill the air with the heavy fullness of something waiting to happen, like the moment just before a branch or twig or boat tumbled down the angry precipice of a waterfall or the second before a viper struck. 

Geralt, of course, only hmm’ed when Jaskier brought this up. Jaskier figured that was either shorthand for what the everloving fuck are you going on about now or I haven’t heard such utter nonsense since the last time you opened your mouth. Still, the foreboding lingered.

But words that only remain in subtext are doomed to live and die in that same subtext and Jaskier was very good at ignoring what wasn’t said when it suited him. It made for more exciting adventures, he thought.

That being said, of course, Jaskier would still listen to the subtle silent cues Geralt gave him with his body language and varying degrees of grunts and animalistic noises. He wasn’t a monster. But Jaskier was determined, after Melitele knows how many years traveling together (six? Seven?), to get some more verbal communication from his notoriously taciturn witcher. 

A man could only subsist so long on grunts and harrumphs. Not that he really wanted to change Geralt, but even Jaskier tired of filling the silence by himself sometimes. That wasn’t to say that he could handle creating both sides of the conversation if need be, however.

Regardless, the day was hot and muggy and Jaskier just wanted to make it to the next town quickly where he would convince Geralt to cough up the money for a room with a bed and a bath because, fuck, Geralt needed one. He was half convinced there were still ghoul guts in his hair.

“So, how long until civilization, my dear friend?” he chirped, putting more cheer in his voice than he could manage to feel at the moment.

“Hmm.” An unsurprising response.

“Ah, yes, I see. We are hmm miles from town. Yes, I’ll be sure to put that in my next ballad.

_When the witcher and the bard_

_Were hmm miles from their next_

_Hunting ground, the trail long and hard_

_But fear not, dear fellows, for…_ ” he sang. It wasn’t his best work, but it seemed to hit the mark for his current purposes, namely annoying Geralt into answering him.

“Enough, bard. We should reach town by-” He cut off suddenly, staring intently at something some meters off.

“What are you looking at?” Jaskier stared in the general direction Geralt was looking. He saw nothing but trees and more trees. And a delightful little red bird perched on an oak branch.

He received a questioning grunt in response.

The silence was starting to feel heavy again. Well, that certainly wouldn’t do.

Jaskier gasped. “It’s the bird isn’t it?” he exclaimed. “It’s some sort of doppler! Or perhaps a changeling? Oh, I know! It’s some sort of- of- of graveir or something come to strip the marrow from our bones!” His friend could never resist correcting him when he started spouting off incorrect information about monsters.

He was reliable that way.

Geralt looked at him, started out of his brief reverie. “What? No. That’s ridiculous. Graviers don’t look anything like birds.” His expression didn’t change but Jaskier could still read the consternation in the slightly scrunched skin between his brows.

“Then what has so drawn your attention away from my frankly enchanting singing?” His free-style lyrics might have needed some work, but his singing was always worth listening to.

“Nothing, bard.”

Jaskier leveled a look at him, which Geralt made moot by deciding not to look at him. The force of his gaze must have made some impression however, else witcher’s really can see behind them, as he continued, “I just thought I saw some markings.”

Jaskier had seen teeth removed with less difficulty than this conversation. “Markings?”

Geralt grunted. “On the tree.”

Jaskier peered over to where Geralt had been looking- they had walked far enough that they had reached the part of the road next to the section of the forest that had attracted Geralt’s attention. “I don’t see anything.”

Geralt continued to pointedly not look at him. “I was mistaken.”

Now that startled Jaskier bad enough that he nearly tripped over the dirt that had suddenly and maliciously appeared in his path. “Excuse me? I fear that my ears might have been magicked somehow because I think I just heard the Geralt of Rivia say he was wrong about something.”

“It has been known to happen.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jaskier smirked. “Here I thought witchers were never wrong, only annoying bards.”

Geralt looked down at Jaskier from his place on Roach with a slight smile. “Wrong again.” 

Jaskier barked out a laugh. “I suppose then that you are again right, dear witcher.” A lighter silence than before descended on the pair.

“Half an hour’s walk, if I recall correctly.”

“What?”

“To town. It’s half an hour away.”

“If you recall correctly.”

“Yes. It has been… quite some time since I have come this way. And even my memory is not perfect.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to hmm. They walked in silence for another few moments as Jaskier pondered this. “Do your mutations give you enhanced memory?” He knew that Geralt often didn’t enjoy talking about the effects his mutations had on his body, but at times he could be convinced.

Normally the convincing happened after a challenging fight followed by a long and soothing bath, but Jaskier was hopeful that the monotony of the road would convince his witcher to open up.

Also, he was bored.

Wait. His witcher? Where had that come from? Geralt was decidedly his own wolf, not tamed in the least. He was just as likely to fight a monster for you as he was to leave you in the middle of a conversation to be ravaged by angry bar patrons. Jaskier would know- both had happened in the last month.

Though, perhaps he was a little tame, at least for him. After all, the White Wolf didn’t tolerate other people, humans, very well at all and for all of his huffing and puffing and growling, Geralt had never seriously tried to deter the bard from following him around or from his near-boundless need to fill the silence.

“No. I-”

Unfortunately Jaskier never got to know the ending of that sentence as just then Geralt cut off and perked up in the saddle, attention focused on the woods ahead of them, head tilted as if listening to some far-off sound hidden from Jaskier’s non-enhanced ears.

“What is it,” Jaskier whispered fervently. “It is actually a gravier.”

“No,” Geralt scoffed. “It isn’t dark yet. Someone’s coming.”

Jaskier relaxed somewhat and let out a breathy, relieved laugh. “Oh, well, that’s fine. Isn’t it? We are on a main road for once and close to the village. It would be more strange for there to not be people on the road.”

Geralt grunted but didn’t seem to relax. Jaskier knew his friend didn’t particularly care for dealing with capricious humans who were just as likely to stone him out of town as pay him for services rendered, but this seemed to be an extreme reaction to passing someone along the road. They were heading into town, after all. It was only to be expected.

On the other hand, it’s not normally wise to ignore Geralt’s instincts and he was often more aware than Jaskier when it comes to threats. On the other other hand, Geralt was an overly suspicious beast of a man sometimes.

“Hail travelers!” A voice called out from ahead of them. Two gentlemen who were presumably walking along the path ahead of them came into view.

“Hello!” Jaskier called out. It always paid to be friendly to strangers, especially when one of them may have a job for them, or a spare bed.

***

Fuck it all to hell and back, Geralt thought. 

For the past several miles Geralt had been experiencing a deep unease, one that did not seem borne of lack of sleep or an overly active imagination. It settled over the entire area like a deep fog and Geralt couldn’t seem to shake the deep feeling of wrongness that had seeped into his bones.

The scent of the forest put him on alert for reasons he couldn’t articulate even in the confines of his own mind. The scent of the woods normally worked to calm him, barring the presence of a monster, but today the sweet smells of pine sap and petrichor did little to ease his tension. The forest today smelt almost malevolent.

But that wasn’t possible. Malevolence doesn’t have a smell. He had faced enough monsters and monsters that wore human faces to say this with certainty.

And yet the forest still smelt malevolent. Even the familiar scent of Jaskier- wood polish and a delicate jasmine perfume- didn’t comfort him as it normally did. But that also was a thought for another time.

Always, always another time when it came to matters of this foolish bard who had for some reason decided to follow a golden eyed half-monster as he hunted other monsters. Geralt wouldn’t betray the incomprehensible trust his lark had placed in him by marring their relationship with talk of his feelings.

If only that old wife’s tale about witchers not having feelings were true.

And yet still there was that marking he had seen on the tree. Despite what he had told Jaskier he didn’t think it was nothing. It bore the sign of the School of the Wolf, but he couldn’t recall what the symbol meant.

It was important, he knew that much. But despite the many physical advantages his mutations and potions give him, they afford him not better memory or soundness of mind that the average human.

He sighed internally. Hopefully the memory would come back to him before it came to be of import, if it came to be at all.

He was rarely that lucky.

And now the newcomers were speaking of something with great gusto and excitement with Jaskier, if the cheerful flailing of arms was anything to go by. He had unfortunately lost a few moments of the conversation lost in thought, but he doubted it was important. Witchers weren’t known for being polite or talkative and Geralt was no exception. His input likely wasn’t expected.

As he tuned back into the flow of words, he discovered that Jaskier had quite readily agreed to pay at the local tavern tonight for a not insignificant sum of money. Geralt had a fleeting thought of how odd it was that the strangers were paying for the pleasure of a bard’s company, especially since they were just as apt to show up without any promise of pay at all.

Geralt recalled the first day they had met when all Jaskier had received for his inflammatory performance was pants full of bread, which turned out not to be a euphemism as he had first thought.

“Come, come, friend bard and friend witcher! My brother and I’ll lead you back to Bredon. It is not far at all,” one of the men said with a charming smile. He was the shorter one, but he had more than a few gray hairs gracing his beard, leading Geralt to believe that this was the older brother. He was not an unattractive man and seemed charming enough, based on Jaskier’s reactions to him, but his eyes were more intense than Geralt cared for.

Such a look didn’t belong on a simple tavern-keeper.

“We would be most delighted to have your company at our inn! No charge of course; the services you provide towns like ours is payment enough,” the other brother said. This one’s eyes shared the same hunter’s intensity as his brother.

“How delightful! Your kindness and generosity don’t go unnoticed, my good sirs! Right, Geralt?”

He grunted his acknowledgment. The less interaction he had with these people the better. Jaskier gave him a disapproving look at his lack of verbosity. 

He should be used to it by now.

“Well then, lead the way!”

As they neared closer to the village Geralt could not escape the growing tension that had settled into his stomach like a Gordian knot. The scent of wrongness from before wasn’t fading either; if anything, it only intensified as they got closer to the village.

Geralt subtly sniffed the air. He smelled no fear from either of the strangers, which was odd but not necessarily worrisome. Jaskier also lacked the pungent taste of fear- unsurprising at this point, though the lack of it had caused Geralt many sleepless nights in the past as he mused over the novel of a human that had never smelled of fear because of his presence.

The strangers smelt of leather, ale, and meat. This also wasn’t surprising as it would seem that they ran the inn that they were traveling towards. He would have to confirm this with Jaskier later- he had evidently missed that part of the conversation.

Still, Geralt couldn’t escape the feeling that he was missing something critical and he resolved himself to spending as little time in Bredon as he could. Jobs and money could wait. He nodded to himself, yes, he and Jaskier would be on the road out of town by dawn.

***

The evening saw Jaskier and Geralt at the tavern attached to the inn. Jaskier was flitting from patron to patron singing a particularly raunchy rendition of The Fishmonger’s Daughter, thrusting his hips in a vaguely dance-esque motion that made the ladies giggle and the men roll their eyes. It appeared that tonight was a good night for the him- most of the patrons sober enough to do so were clapping and singing along with Jaskier.

Jaskier, in the brief interludes between his sets would glance over at Geralt, who had seemingly not moved since sitting down at a table in the corner. And, judging by the ten or so scattered pints surrounding him, he was well on his way to drunkeness.

It was notably difficult to get a witcher drunk and Geralt was certainly no exception. Jaskier could count on two hands the number of times he had even seen his friend get tipsy.

The only time Jaskier could recall Geralt actually getting drunk was the time they had stolen several bottles of elven wine from a nobleman who had decided to not pay the extremely intimidating witcher he had hired to take care of his monster problem.

That was never a wise decision.

And Jaskier didn’t even think it should count as thievery, really. The man had deserved it and Geralt hadn’t complained either.

Regardless, Jaskier didn’t even think Geralt could get drunk off human brews, much less the watery shit ale this tavern tried to pass off to its clientele. Why was it that all the taverns in these rural towns always have shit ale?

That was beside the point though (or was it a supporting point?) because as Jaskier inspected Geralt closer he looked completely drunk off his ass. He was leaning forward and just enough sideways to make Jaskier wonder if he was about to fall of his seat. He had his head resting on one of his hands and wore an expression that was an odd mixture between blank and concerned. His eyebrows were furrowed and he stared blankly ahead.

Jaskier quickly checked the coins he had collected through the course of his performance- 20 silvers, 1 gold, and 30 coppers. Not too bad. Good enough for him to take an early leave for the night and check on his drunken witcher.

He didn’t appear in a bad enough way for Jaskier to be concerned but the situation was new enough that Jaskier could help the mild worry worming its way into his chest.

New things didn’t generally bode well for their well-being.

Weaving his way through the crowd, Jaskier made his way to where Geralt was sitting.

“Now what kind of witcher gets plastered on watered down ale?” he joked, smiling. “That’s just plain irresponsible. What if a drowner come in and tried to kill everyone? Then where would we be?” he goaded at Geralt, expecting him to correct the obviously wrong information.

Of course he knew drowners didn’t leave bodies of water. He may play the fool at times but he’s not stupid.

Geralt didn’t even look at him.

This normally wouldn’t concern Jaskier but the glassy look in Geralt’s eyes spoke of a bigger issue than simple overindulgence.

He tapped Geralt’s arm. No response.

He leaned his face near Geralt’s, breaking into his personal space, an activity that Jaskier normally took great thrill and pride in, especially when Geralt allowed it with little more than a faux-annoyed huff.

This, however, this was neither of those things. The pit in Jaskier’s stomach continued to grow.

“Hey! Hey, Geralt. Look at me.”

Nothing.

He reached out and shook Geralt- it was like moving a brick wall. “Geralt!”

“Hmm?” A confused, questioning noise reached Jaskier’s ears and golden eyes met his. At last!

“Oh, thank goodness. You alright, buddy?” Friend, lover, dearheart, my precious wolf, he didn’t say. He was allowed to think it though, even in a situation as unpleasant as this one.

“...no?”

Jaskier took a deep breath. Even after being sliced nearly in two by a griffon or half-drowned by a tiamat Geralt would always claim he was perfectly fine you over-worrisome bard.

The awful part of it was he wasn’t usually lying. By witcher standards anyways. The two of them seemed to have different standards for “fine” and Geralt’s version of the word usually meant either I am not actively dying or I may be dying now but I’ll fix it so stop worrying.

Jaskier worried anyways. Since Geralt wouldn’t do it himself, it was Jaskier’s job to take over the burden of making sure Geralt’s various cuts and scrapes got more treatment than a perfunctory scrubbing down and barebone stitchwork if necessary.

Geralt’s witcher training wouldn’t let him actively ignore a wound- even with his mutations infection was still a risk. But it also didn’t encourage him to take much care of his body when the wound wasn’t serious to the point of endangerment.

All of this to say Jaskier’s anxiety suddenly shot higher than it had in a long time.

“What’s wrong, Geralt? What’s happening? You have to talk to me so I can fix it.”

“Dunn’o,” he slurred.

Geralt never admitted to not knowing anything.

“Geralt? Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed, shaking the man again as his eyes began to droop.

“Hmm?”

“What’s wrong?”

“W’s drink’n,” he trailed off.

“Alright, alright. Okay. You were drinking. Then what?”

Geralt eyebrows furrowed further as he seemed to take a moment to think. It looked like it took far more effort than it should have done.

“Th’ ale. W’s s’lty,” he hummed. “B’d.”

“The ale was salty and bad?” This wasn’t elucidating the situation at all. If anything, it just became murkier. Salty, bad ale surely wasn’t enough to do this to a witcher.

Witchers weren’t allergic to salt, were they? No, no, that’s stupid. Focus, Jaskier! He reprimanded himself.

“What do you mean Geralt?”

Each word seemed to fall out Geralt’s lips like a boulder falling into a placid lake- it took great effort to make fall and it hurt all the while.

“S’lt. Pois’n?” A pause. “M’ I dy’n?”

Jaskier gasped. “Fuck.” He looked Geralt in the eyes; they shone full of worry in a way Jaskier had never seen before. “Fuck.”

“No. No you’re not going to die Geralt, I swear it.”

He grunted. “G’d. Tr’st you.”

And fuck if that didn’t make something primal and wonderful clench in Jaskier’s chest. But that had to wait.

“Geralt, look at me.” He cradled his face in his hands and made the witcher focus on him. “Do you have an antidote for the poison? Something to counteract it?”

Geralt only stared at him with a look of pure incomprehension. The poison must be clouding his mind. That’s can’t be good. Does that mean that the poison has reached his brain? Fuck, is it too late? Is that even how poisons work?

“Wh’?”

“A potion. Do you have a potion for the poison?”

Geralt took a moment to think. “Y’s… th’k so.” Geralt couldn’t recall- had he used it already or was there still some in his bag?

Fortunately, Jaskier wasn’t privy to this worry and the relief he felt at these words was palpable.

“Great! It’s in your bag? Don’t answer that. Of course it is; you are irritatingly organized. Not that I’m complaining, no. Makes it easy to find the antidote for the stupid witcher who drank poison. Why’d you have to go and do that, huh? Just had to go and ruin the evening, didn’t you? I was about to be invited to share the night with a lovely barmaid you know.”

Talking was good; you didn’t have time to think if your mouth was running. 

While he was talking Jaskier had managed to get Geralt to his feet and fortunately for them both Geralt had enough presence of mind and strength left in his body to stagger towards their room, leaning heavily on Jaskier.

The walk seemed to last an eternity, each step an eon, but despite Jaskier’s fears to the contrary, they made it back to their room only slightly worse for wear.

Jaskier guided Geralt towards the bed and let him slump down onto it in an undignified heap.

Jaskier pawed under the bed until his hands found the straps of Geralt’s bag and pulled it out. For some reason Geralt felt safer leaving it stuffed under the bed than laying out in the room, as if under the bed wasn’t the first place thieves would check.

But Jaskier wasn’t about to complain about Geralt’s reliably consistency now, not when it was benefiting them. Later perhaps, when Geralt was better because Geralt would get better. Jaskier would raze the whole continent down if that’s what it took but something this stupid wouldn’t be what finally fell his witcher.

Who would even do something like this? How did it get past Geralt’s mystifyingly impressive sense of smell? But those were questions for another time. The question now was which bottle held the precious cure?

Red for wounds, green for disinfectant, black for his weird super-power shit, blue for pain. These he knew, but that still left white, purply-blue, and a half-filled gold vial.

“Which one is it?”

The man on the bed was unresponsive. “Geralt!” Jaskier yelled, slapping him across the face. He could apologize for that later, he thought, but Geralt needed to wake up right now.

There was a pained groan. “Geralt, you need to tell me which potion to use. It’s important.”

“Uhhhh. G’ld?”

“The gold one? Are you sure? I don’t want to make it worse.”

Geralt’s eyes again slipped closed. Fuck, there was no time. 

Jaskier managed to sit Geralt up and lean him against the wall that the bed was pressed up against. He quickly popped the cork to the vial and, tilting Geralt’s head up, poured the liquid in. Hopefully it would be enough. Jaskier’s hands gently stroked down Geralt’s neck in an attempt to encourage the liquid to pass smoothly down. He wasn’t sure if that actually helped, but it did help him feel better so Jaskier would allow himself the indulgence.

Jaskier sat on the bed next to Geralt and allowed his mind to wander. What if it wasn’t enough? How would Jaskier even know if the potion wasn’t working? There wasn’t any more if it wasn’t enough and such a small village surely didn’t have any sort of apothecary decent enough to have an antidote. And even if they did it was unlikely it would be potent enough to work on witchers. Or even that it would work against whatever had felled his friend.

A horrible thought struck the bard and seemed to sink in as it hadn’t a few moments ago. What if he died? What if after tonight Jaskier was alone again? He didn’t think he would survive it.

But above all, what happened? More times than Jaskier could remember offhand Geralt had stopped him from drinking some tainted substance, telling him that he could smell the poison. The man was practically a bloodhound. How could those sharp eyes have missed someone slipping something in his drink? How could he have missed the bitter scent most poisons came with?

He had said the ale tasted salty. So clearly he had noticed something was amiss. Why didn’t he say anything? Did he think Jaskier was too useless to help?

It was then that Jaskier noticed that his breathing had increased to the point where it was unlikely his lungs were getting any substantial amount of oxygen in them. He needed to calm down, for Geralt’s sake if nothing else. This excessive fretting was helping neither of them, least of all himself.

He needed to be strong in mind. He couldn’t afford to let Geralt down now.

The night gradually fell and the moon continued its apathetic waltz across the night sky, immune to the pleas of the bard down below, praying to any and all gods that would listen to help his friend, to make sure he lasted the night and the next night and the next.

No one listened, of course, but Geralt continued taking breath after breath anyways. He was stubborn like that.

And, slowly, eventually, Jaskier allowed himself to believe that Geralt would be okay. If the poison was going to kill him then it surely would have done so already. Geralt’s mutations should have taken hold by now, working together with the potion to ensure his recovery.

Nevertheless, Jaskier’s eyes never strayed from Geralt’s chest, watching as it rose and fell, until the first rays of the morning dawn crept in through the grime-tainted window.

***

Geralt woke to the sun blinding him and the worst headache he had ever experienced. But he was warm and pressed against something soft. Things could be worse.

Geralt allowed himself to doze back into a light sleep, unable for the moment to consider waking up and facing the day. Sleeping in wasn’t something witchers did- they were trained to be notoriously early risers- but everything in his body seemed to disagree with getting up and starting the day.

The movement of the soft pillow he was laying on was unexpected but Geralt felt safe and comfortable enough to where he wasn’t alarmed by it. That in and of itself should have been alarming but honestly, he was too comfortable to care.

“Geralt?” He heard a soft voice call his name. It sounded familiar but he couldn’t place a name to it, but he did feel safer and warmer at knowing the voice was there. Little was consistent or safe in his life, but he knew in the very core of his being that the voice was both and that was worth more than any amount of gold.

He would ever tell the owner of the voice that, of course. Not that he could remember at the moment who the voice belonged to or why it couldn’t tell the voice, but it seemed important.

“Geralt,” the voice repeated, just as soft but more insistent this time.

He grunted. What did the voice want? He was tired.

“Ah, good. You’re awake. I mean obviously you’re awake. You knew that. I didn’t but I do now. Obviously.” There was a pregnant pause and Geralt’s foggy mind tried to keep up with the rapid-fire rambling. 

“Fuck. Fuck, Geralt. I thought you were going to die. But you’re fine now. You are fine now, right? You’re still breathing really slow, but you always breathe slow and I’m not sure how slow is too slow and can your heart beat too fast as well? Anyways, it doesn’t matter because you’re fine now and you’re definitely not going to die because you’re Geralt of Rivia and Geralt of Rivia definitely doesn’t die.”

All of this came out in seemingly one breath, each word coming out so fast they were all stumbling on top of one another and landing in a jumble in Geralt’s ears.

“Hmm?” What?

The voice laughed and it sounded like birdsong in Geralt’s ears. “You sound like a burring cat.” Geralt could practically hear the smile on the voice’s face.

He made the noise again.

Another chuckle- success. “You are okay, though, right? Like really really okay not just witcher okay?”

Was he okay? He thought he was okay. Tired and in some pain, but that was just life. With great effort he managed to squint his eyes open. The sun was coming in bright through the window, already high in the sky.

He flitted his eyes up and saw a face that graced his best dreams and brought a slight smile to his face. Ah, Jaskier. How could he forget his wonderful Jaskier even for a moment? And the soft pillow he was on was Jaskier’s chest it seemed.

Geralt attempted to turn his head to look around the room, witcher anxiety vigilance urging him to make sure they were safe. But in his attempt, he discovered his hair was caught under something and he couldn’t turn his head any farther.

Jaskier huffed a small laugh and gently gathered the wayward strands into one, tugging it free from where it was trapped, and gently reached out to stroke the witcher’s face. They locked eyes and neither seemed keen to look away.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t make me translate today. Please. I need to hear the words.”

A reasonable request, especially considering Jaskier put forth the effort to make meaning out of his various hums and growls the rest of the time. Or perhaps he was just feeling indulgent today.

Geralt took a moment to think; Jaskier didn’t appear to be in the mood to allow a flippant answer. His face was more serious than Geralt had ever thought he had seen it. “I’m fine. My head hurts,” he finally decided on. 

“You’re not dying.”

Foolish bard; of course he wasn’t dying. Why would Jaskier think that? “No.”

Jaskier sighed, full of relief. “Good. That’s good.”

“What happened?”

Jaskier took a deep breath and for a moment looked pained. “You were poisoned.”

And all of a sudden the memories of the evening came rushing back. Jaskier’s performance at the tavern, all of the women flirting with his bard and flitting around him like the flies that plagued Roach, him drinking more pints of ale than was probably wise, and then… Then? It became blurry then. He recalled the world spinning on its axis, a rising pain in his head that radiated everywhere. 

Jaskier brought him back to the room, to their room, not going with one of the women vying for his attention. But he remembered feeling too lousy to appreciate that at the time, his brain too muddled, but he could certainly appreciate the fact that it was him lying in bed with the bard right now and no one else.

He didn’t remember what had happened when they got back to their room, however.

The whole sequence of events was rather blurry. He had been poisoned? He didn’t remember seeing anyone drugging his ale (and it must have been the ale because he hadn’t eaten anything at the tavern) or noticing something with it being off.

It was ridiculously difficult to poison a witcher. First of all, his heightened senses had never before failed to let him know if his food or drink had been tampered with. Witchers were also immune to most toxins that would kill a human- a benefit of the poisons that turned them into a witcher in the first place. There were only a small handful of plants capable of doing the job and most of them were nigh impossible to find in this part of the continent.

So what had happened? 

The whole situation, the more he thought about it, reeked of a trap. Or a planned assassination. Geralt couldn’t think of anyone specifically out to get him at the moment, but witchers were never short of enemies.

“Hmm,” he said. This was bad.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Vaguely. The details are… blurry.”

“Right. That makes sense. You were pretty out of it. Well, first I saw you slumped over in your seat after my performance and I thought you were drunk at first, you know?”

He hummed.

“So I went over to check on you and, fuck Geralt, you were so out of it. I was so scared- I’ve barely even seen you tipsy before so I was alarmed before I even knew what had happened. And then I asked you if you were alright and you were so confused. You said that your ale was salty and that you’d been poisoned.”

Geralt grunted. “Fuck.” He could only imagine the stress that Jaskier felt in that moment.

Though, upon further thought, he could imagine it quite clearly. The bard had a knack for almost getting killed by various monsters and angry lovers himself.

Jaskier continued, looking as if he was holding back tears. “Yeah. Fuck. So I took you back to the room and you told me that you needed the gold potion. There was only half a bottle left and I wasn’t sure if it was enough or how I could get more if you needed it or if you were going to, going to, t-” he broke off in to heaving breaths and tears streamed down his face.

“I thought you were going to die,” he sobbed. Jaskier leaned forward and touched his forehead to Geralt’s. “You were dying and there was nothing I could do and-” he cut himself off with another thick sob.

Concerned, Geralt’s instincts overrode his brain and he reached up and grabbed one of Jaskier’s hands. “You saved me. It’s over now and I’m fine. I promise.” His poor lark.

“Swear to me, Geralt. Swear to me that you’re going to be fine because I don’t think I could survive it if you weren’t.”

“You would be,” Geralt said, alarmed. He had to be. Geralt’s life was dangerous and he was always one misstep from a horrible death. He had always spent so much time worrying over Jaskier’s safety that he had never thought to consider what would happen if Geralt was the one to die first. Humans lives are so short it had never occurred to him.

If he had he would have thought that Jaskier would simply move on several songs richer and set up his services in some nobleman’s court. His dandelion belonged somewhere nice, somewhere that had soft beds, sweet-smelling perfumes, and food he didn’t have to catch himself.

But, no. Even as the thoughts passed through his mind, Geralt knew that wouldn’t happen. Jaskier was too good for that, far too good for him. He would grieve Geralt, grieve him like a human who died tragically and not a monster that met its inevitable end.

“You’d be fine, Dandelion.” Fuck, where had that come from? It was too late to back down now though and take it back. “You’re strong.”

Jaskier laugh was still choked up with barely-contained tears, but Geralt still counted it as a success. “When’d you become such a sap?”

“Hmm.” His lips quirked up in a slight smile. “It doesn’t matter though, bard, because I’m going to be fine. I think I’ll be a little weak for a while and I’ll need to replenish the golden oriole sooner rather than later, but I will live. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, my dear witcher. If you don’t keep your promise I’ll- I’ll- well I don’t know what I’ll do but rest assured you won’t like it!”

“You’re a clever little lark. I’m sure you’ll come up with something suitable,” Geralt said fondly.

The tears had tapered off into slight sniffles. “Are you sure you’re alright? This is more compliments in one conversation than I’ve received in the entire rest of the time we’ve traveled together.”

“Hmm.”

They took another few moments to collect their thoughts and resolutely ignored that they were still cuddled together on the bed. There was no need to draw attention to that. Noticing things meant having to deal with them and everything was far too raw at the moment to even consider it.

But all good things must come to an end and this brief moment of calm togetherness was no different.

“Pack your bags. We’re leaving,” Geralt said with a sigh. He hated to break their reverie but it wasn’t safe for him here and Geralt suspected that if one of the villagers had been foolhardy and clever enough to hurt him once it could happen again and the next time he might not be so lucky.

For it was only luck and Jaskier’s presence of mind that had saved him last night, he was sure of it. 

Geralt was certain he could take anyone here in a battle, even a group of them. But slyness, trickery, and deceit were different beasts altogether and there was little else he’d rather do less than engage in a secret battle of wits. He wasn’t a coward, but he did have a healthy sense of which fights to pick and this one was better left alone. Better to leave this town now in peace than in pieces.

“Wait, what? Now?” Jaskier exclaimed. “You don’t at least want to get breakfast before heading off? I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard. You’re still recovering.”

He looked so concerned for him it threw Geralt for a moment, but a flash of annoyance flared up at the same time.

“Forgive me if I don’t want to eat a meal from the same place I got poisoned at,” Geralt snarked, more harshly than he intended. Fuck, now Jaskier had his sad puppy expression.

“I’m so sorry; I didn’t even think about that,” Jaskier said frowning. “Did you,” he hesitated, “want and try and found out who did this?”

Geralt pondered this for a moment. Did he? He supposed that he would like to know but he wasn’t thrilled about the risk that came with staying. It was most likely that a person in the tavern had taken offense to his presence and decided to do something about it. The fact that the individual used knew which poison would be effective against witchers was unusual, but the information wasn’t especially difficult to find if you knew where to look.

It would be smarter to leave rather than risk his luck demystifying the situation. 

“No. There will always be people who hate witchers. Attaching a name to the deed would do us no good. We’re better off leaving now before the person responsible realizes the poison didn’t take.”

Jaskier had a face of sad contemplation and Geralt didn’t care for it. They were better off leaving this place far behind as quickly as possible.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asked him softly. That look of concern was back again too.

“I already said that I am.”

Jaskier swatted playfully at him. “No, I know that. I meant emotionally, you dolt.”

Geralt grunted. If anything the bard was the dolt. “Witchers don’t have emotions.”

“Don’t lie to me, not now. We both know that you do. After all, if you didn’t, I wouldn’t annoy you half as much,” Jaskier said with a teasing smile.

Geralt made a noise that could be interpreted as a slight laugh if one was feeling particularly indulgent.

“And I don’t think you’d still be snuggled here in bed with if weren’t at least a little bit fond of me.”

“Hmm. Perhaps, but now is not the time to discuss such things.”

“But you admit that there is something to discuss.” Jaskier’s voice was more intense than Geralt had heard it in a while.

“Foolish bard,” Geralt chided.

“That wasn’t a no.”

It wasn’t. And Geralt couldn’t help his slight smile that mirrored Jaskier’s.

Then, groaning, Geralt slipped out of the bed and began packing up the few things that were scattered about the room. Geralt reached to pick up one of Jaskier’s perfume vials, but all of a sudden Jaskier was there in front of him grabbing it before he could.

He made a questioning noise.

“Go lay back down. You’re still recovering,” Jaskier demanded.

“I’m fine.”

“Maybe so but you’re not 100% and you won’t get better pushing yourself too soon.”

“This isn’t pushing myself. I’ve done more with far worse injuries.”

“Well you shouldn’t have to!” Jaskier snapped, surprising them both with the ferocity in his voice. Only Geralt’s witcher training stopped him from jerking in surprise at the loudness of the tone.

Jaskier took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just you didn’t see yourself last night. I really did think you were going to die. So please just sit down and let me do this.”

Geralt didn’t move. He wasn’t some waif in need of coddling.

“For me?” Jaskier said with a coy smile.

“Am I just supposed to comply just because it’s you asking?”

Jaskier wore the expression of a man who knew that he had already won. “Yes.”

Damn the man. “Fine.” There was little he wouldn’t do for Jaskier.

Geralt sat on the bed, watching Jaskier putter around the room, collecting the various odds and ends that had managed to get strewn about over the scant few hours they had been there, and tried to ignore the growing pit in his stomach.

***  
Roach had been packed with no unpleasant surprises and they were heading out of Bredon, north Geralt had said, towards Actonfelle, a larger town some miles off that Geralt claimed would likely have a job for them.

Jaskier could see the tenseness set in Geralt’s shoulders. Not that he was ever truly relaxed, bath time excluded, but he seemed more tense than normal and his eyes flicked back and forth in the wary way of a threatened predator.

They had made it through the town center when suddenly Geralt signaled to Roach to stop and he sniffed at the air, looking around in what in a lesser man Jaskier would call alarm.

“Where do you think you’re going, witcher,” a voice from the right called out. Reynor, the innkeeper stepped out of the side street and into view. Beside him was his brother, Diccon, and an older man with graying hair and a face that seemed to have aged mean rather than well.

Behind them were a dozen or so men, all armed.

“Fuck,” Jaskier heard Geralt mutter. A rather succinct summary of the situation, Jaskier thought.

“We don’t want a fight,” Jaskier called out to the approaching men. “We were just leaving.” It would be better to cut this off now rather than let it devolve into a fight. He had meant it when he said he didn’t want Geralt pushing himself and fighting over a dozen armed men would definitely be pushing it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured. “You need to hide. Now.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered back vehemently.

Geralt gave him a pointed look as he dismounted roach that Jaskier pretended not to notice.

Diccon barked out a laugh. “You don’t understand, bard. There will be no leaving for the witcher or for you.”

“There’s no need for a fight,” Geralt said, finally addressing the mob. “We’ll be on our way and I guarantee we’ll never step foot in your village again.”

“Damn right you won’t,” the man snarled. “The only good witcher is a dead witcher. Fuckin’ unnatural you are. No better than a monster!”

“Worse,” the old man snarled, stepping forward and putting his hand on Diccon’s shoulder. “At least monsters don’t pretend to be human.”

He stared at Geralt, unblinking. “Bredon’s had more than enough of your kind here.”

“And who are you meant to be,” Jaskier growled.

“Thomlin, mayor of Bredon here for over fifty years.”

Jaskier’s glare didn’t lesson. Fucking hell, even the mayor was in on it.

Geralt hummed and fingered his sword and Jaskier hoped the mob didn’t notice. Unlikely but still, he could hope.

The old man- Thomlin- continued, “We let one of your kind in here once, to kill a wyvern killin’ our cattle and razing our crops. Worst mistake I e’er’ made. ‘E killed the beast and then slaughtered me wife and a dozen others!” he spat, spittle flying and eyes blazing. 

“The beast killed our people and took our money!” His lips curled into a malicious grin. “An’ we been killin’ all the other vermin witchers who dared come through here. Fuckin’ snakes you lot are!” he said spitting at Geralt’s feet.

Geralt’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “You were the one who tried to kill me.”

“Nay, that was me son Reynor. A good lad that’n.”

“But you planned it. It’s not easy to poison a witcher but you knew exactly which plants would work and which ones I wouldn’t smell.”

“Not as thick as you look are you, monster? Aye. We’re ready to take care of any witchers that come our way. It’s our duty to rid the world of you demons.”

The men shifted where the stood, becoming sick of the talking.

Jaskier knew that Geralt would want him to stay quiet and hopefully out of notice of the men but the Geralt’s lack of appreciation for his timing and for what he had to say had never stopped him before and his anger on Geralt’s behalf as he stood there not defending himself only spurred his next words on all the more. 

“That’s sick,” Jaskier all but screeched. “You! You’re the monsters here! Killing innocent men! Sticking knives in their backs as they sit unawares! Vile-”

“You mistake the monster for a man,” Reynor interrupted. “But don’t worry, child, I don’t blame you for falling for the guiles of such a creature. Leave it and join us and we won’t hurt you. This is your last and only chance, little bardling.”

Jaskier felt Geralt stiffen next to him. Surely he didn’t think Jaskier would ever consider the vile man’s offer?

“Never.”

Looking back, that was the last clear thing Jaskier could remember for the next several minutes. Jaskier felt himself being thrown to the side by Geralt’s aard, outside of the fighting area, as there was a sudden clashing of blades.

Geralt moved with the agility of a man trained since birth for these sort of fights and every movement, every swing of his sword was purposeful, not a moment or breath of energy wasted as he took down the men like a farmworker would scythe down the harvest.

Moments later, many of the men lay dead on the ground, victim to their own stupidity in challenging a witcher meaning them no harm. Or, perhaps more literally, victim to Geralt’s sword.

Steel for humans, silver for monsters and Jaskier wasn’t sure which he should use in this situation.

But talented as he was Geralt was still weak from the poison and he was flagging quickly, movements becoming less precise and feet stepping out of the way almost too slowly- the death a witcher, Jaskier recalled Geralt once saying.

But soon it was just the old man, his sons, and one other injured person left now that Geralt had to fight, but they surrounded him and his back left exposed.

Geralt pushed against the blades of the two men in front of him, enhanced strength warring against human fury. The injured man knelt nearby, pressing a hand to a gut wound. He was out of commission well enough, though still alive

Reynor, standing behind Geralt, lifted his sword high, a victorious expression on his face.

Fuck. Fuck, no! Geralt was about to be struck down, completely unaware of the danger he was in as he battled the two foes not coward enough to stab a man while his back was turned.

Jaskier didn’t even think. He felt his legs rush forward and his hand grab the knife he kept hidden in his boots, a gift from Geralt. Its handle was decorated with finely painted dandelions, bluebells, and gardenias and it’s blade was sharp enough to cut through the skin like a knife through butter. 

Jaskier had once asked if the flowers held any meaning and Geralt had told him that he wouldn’t know. Such things were unimportant to him. But Jaskier could guess anyways. His nickname was Dandelion after all, and the other flowers weren’t exactly subtle choices.

He let it go, however, as he always does. It was all too possible that Geralt really didn’t know what the flowers had meant and he had just had the sheathe decorated in such a manner in a heavy handed attempt to encourage Jaskier to actually keep it on his person instead of conveniently forgetting it as he had the previous knife Geralt had given him. (It was so difficult to hide and people don’t appreciate seeing their bard carrying around weapons!)

But, despite Geralt’s instances to the contrary, Jaskier wasn’t a fool and he didn’t like the idea of acting as one if the flowers truly were nothing but an attempt to appease Jaskier.

Regardless, the blade of the knife was small, short enough to hide and escape the notice of most people, as it did in this instance, but it was still effective. No weapon Geralt approved of would dare to be anything less.

Jaskier didn’t recall moving and he didn’t recall actively reaching for his knife, but it nonetheless struck true and Reynor fell to the ground with a knife in his heart, sword clattering harmlessly down with him.

Geralt took the opportunity to push back against Diccon and Thomlin, sending them clattering to the ground where they noticed their father lying prone, bloodied and not moving.

One of them let out an anguished cry and rose to his knees, hand outstretched towards Reynor.

The other sat where he fell and looked between the witcher and then at the bard, face uncomprehending. He glanced around and saw the rest of the group dead and then met Geralt’s eyes and looked away.

“Get out of here before I kill you,” he snarled weakly. A dying creature’s last attempt at a show of strength.

Geralt nodded. He would let the man pretend to be in charge as he lay in his defeat.

Geralt and Jaskier quickly collected Roach from where she had been standing off to the side, utterly unimpressed by the chaos. She was a good horse. Geralt wordlessly pulled Jaskier up onto Roach with him and they exited the confines of Bredon into the woods with a steadfast refusal to look behind them.

Jaskier, despite everything, couldn’t help but be sad about the loss of the knife. He knew Geralt would just scoff at his sentimentality if brought it up though, so promised himself he wouldn’t bring it up.

Not today at least.

After a few minutes of walking in silence Geralt dismounted and walked over to a tree. Jaskier watched as he closed his eyes and pressed him palm against the tree, his first finger curled inwards. He said something in Elder that Jaskier didn’t understand and a marking appeared on the tree, glowing bright gold like Geralt’s eyes.

The symbol looked like a mess of curling swirls that overlapped each other with a slash cut diagonally down through it.

Jaskier couldn’t make sense of it. It didn’t look like anything man could describe or nature could create.

Without a word Geralt stepped back and remounted Roach and spurred her on.

Jaskier was hesitant to break the silence, but if he didn’t, they would undoubtedly go the rest of the day without speaking and he couldn’t allow that to happen.

“So,” he started, breaking off and coughing when he found his voice a fair bit scratchier than he was anticipating. He continued, “What was that you did to the tree?”

Geralt was silent so long Jaskier thought that he wasn’t going to answer and he started trying to come up with the next question he wanted to ask; there were so many bouncing around his head and he had to pick the most important ones to answer first before Geralt decided he was done speaking for the day, if he already.

“It’s a warning sigil.”

Jaskier waited, hoping the taciturn witcher would continue without prompting, but, alas, that was not in his nature.

“A warning?”

“Hmm. Yes. Witchers put it up to warn others of our school not to enter a certain place.”

There was a moment of quiet as Geralt thought of his next words. Jaskier had learned that pauses in speech didn’t always mean Geralt was done talking and he took great pride in learning when he needed to let him gather his next words and when he needed to spur him on. He was more judicious in their use than Jaskier when he considered the subject important enough and that normally meant that each word was chosen with care.

Normally- he was still fond of his curses and insults. But this was important, Jaskier could tell.

“I noticed one on a tree when we were riding in, but it was from a different school and it’s been so long since I’ve seen one that I didn’t recognize it. It was also the cause of the uneasiness I was experiencing as we approached Bredon. You might have felt it too- another warning symbol of a sort, in case you don’t see the sigil on the tree.”

He sighed. “All of this could have been avoided if I wasn’t so stupid.” His voice was scathing and the self-loathing he could hear in it started Jaskier. He had never known Geralt to be one for self-recrimination.

“Forgetting the symbol, ignoring my instincts. It’s a wonder I didn’t get us killed with my foolishness!”

“Hey, now! That’s enough of that. This is not your fault.”

Geralt scoffed. “Then whose fault is it? It was me that lead us here and me that didn’t see the warnings when they appeared and ignored the ones I did see.”

“That’s not your fault, Geralt! I ignored the bad feeling I had about this place too, all because I wanted a warm bed and a meal we didn’t hunt ourselves. If anything, I’m to blame here!”

“What?” came the incredulous response. “That’s ridiculous. You are the one being foolish now. There was no way you could have known what they were going to do.”

“And neither could you,” Jaskier declared.

“The sigil-”

“Irrelevant. You can’t be expected to know everything.”

“But-”

“But nothing! We both feel guilty about it, but you don’t blame me and I definitely don’t blame you so how about we both agree that it’s neither of our faults and blame the people of Bredon instead?”

It was a perfect compromise. It wouldn’t make either of them happy.

Geralt quickly glanced behind him to look at the bard who was sitting there with a look of utter triumph on his face.

“...fine.”

“Great!”

They continued riding in a less tense silence than before, but still heavy with words unspoken.

***

Evening saw them sitting next to each other, soaking up the warmth of the fire and bellies full from venison. 

Despite Geralt’s claim that they were heading towards a different town, they had avoided the smaller settlements along their path, taking the woodland paths and trails instead, choosing to set up camp in a more isolated area of the woods. Not that this was abnormal for them, but Jaskier took special notice of Geralt’s avoidance of other humans today.

It all seemed to make more sense to him now, all the puzzle pieces clicking into place, how Geralt would tend to avoid human towns unless necessary for a job or to make Jaskier stop complaining, how he would limit his interactions with people as much as possible, letting Jaskier take over price negotiations, how he would isolate himself in the corner of every bar they stepped into.

That all made perfect sense now; people were jackasses.

None of that, however, explained why he didn’t defend himself.

The thought had been plaguing him for hours.

Of all the times he had been run out of town, stones being hurled at his back, or been called horrible vile names to his face, or cussed and screamed vitriol at for daring to exist too close, he had never once defended himself from the onslaughts.

Physical fights? Yes. But the other types of fights and abuse? Never.

Never told them he was a person and not a monster, never tried to reason with them, never tried to get the rest of the numerous payments he was promised and denied. He just took it all as if it was his due and that burned Jaskier up inside.

His anger bubbled up like an overflowing cauldron until it had nowhere else to go but out.

“Why do you let them do that to you?”

Geralt made a questioning, almost offended noise.

“Not that whole thing,” Jaskier clarified, waving a hand as if to indicate all of that fucking mess we just left behind. “That’s not your fault, obviously. I mean why do you let everyone keep believing that you’re a monster? It makes me so mad! I just don’t understand how they can look at you and not see what I do!”

“And what do you see when you look at me?”

“I see the best man I’ve ever met,” Jaskier said, meeting Geralt’s eyes across the fire and feeling is face flush. “I see a man who dedicated his life to defending people who don’t deserve him. I see my best friend, who just so happens to be a witcher. I see you.”

Geralt stared at him for a moment, face blank then so quietly Jaskier had to strain to hear him, “Thank you.” He looked down and sighed, stoking the flame.

“People will always see me as a monster, lark, that’s just how it is. There will always be places that think that the only good witcher is a dead witcher and who will try and hurt or kill me. The only surprising thing about Bredon was how close they actually came to succeeding.”

There was a poignant pause as Jaskier pondered these words. It was ridiculous, of course, how easily Geralt accepted the hatred of the people he protected and ignored the stones and barbs they threw at him. Suddenly a horrible thought came to Jaskier, not for the first time, but it struck a chord with him like it hadn’t previously.

“Blaviken was self-defense, wasn’t it?”

Geralt looked up, startled. This wasn’t where he had thought the conversation would meander.

“Not that I ever believed that you would butcher a town like that for no reason, mind you! But… they attacked you. Like the people of Bredon, didn’t they?”

Jaskier always was more perceptive than Geralt gave him credit for, especially in matters of the heart.

Geralt poked halfheartedly at the fire.

“It was a bit more complicated than that.”

“Was it?” At his witcher’s confused grunt, Jaskier clarified. “Was it really more complicated?”

“Y-”

“Let me finish!” Jaskier jutted in before Geralt could say something awful and tragic like how he deserved it or how it was fine because he healed quickly. All of the bullshit that broke Jaskier’s heart but Geralt seemed to believe and accept. “Please?”

Geralt nodded.

“Okay, so let me guess. You go into town. It’s filled with a bunch of jackasses, like usual, but you take care of their monster problem anyways- you’re too nice sometimes, I swear.” Jaskier ignored the offended noise Geralt made at that. “You go to get paid and they refuse and try to run you out of town. Or you do get paid but then they change their minds. Regardless, they draw swords and attack. You defend yourself, killing your attacked and would-be murderers. And then you get labeled as a butcher for it for the rest of your life.”

Geralt refused to meet his eyes, staring intently into the flame.

“Well,” Jaskier insisted. “Am I right?”

“The situation was more complicated than that,” Geralt repeated.

“Always is,” Jaskier agreed. “But at the core of it I’m right, aren’t I?”

Gearlt sighed and he suddenly had a look in his eyes that made him seem as old as he claimed to be. The lights of the fire flickered, making the gold of Geralt’s eyes almost seem to glow and Jaskier was transfixed. The man was gorgeous. Inside and out, as cliche as it was to say.

How could no one else see that?

“No, you’re not too far off,” Geralt finally admitted.

For once, being right didn’t give Jaskier any satisfaction. The truth tasted bitter in his mind and he almost regretting bringing the whole thing up, if not for the fact that Jaskier could never truly forget leaning more about friend, no matter how unpleasant what he learned was. Geralt’s history was shrouded so well and ignored so resolutely that it was easy to forget that this man who had slain wyverns and ghouls had a past before him, one stained with blood and hatred from all sides.

It was a very bitter truth indeed.

Jaskier visibly shuddered, shaking off the mauldin thoughts.

“C’mon let’s get you cleaned up,” he said with a weak smile. He would make this situation better even if it killed him.

“I am not bathing in the river at night. It’s too cold for that shit.”

“And dark,” he added as an afterthought.

Jaskier started rummaging through his bag and cursed his lack of organization. Maybe he would take Geralt up on his offer to teach him how to pack better so he could find his things.

Actually, no. That would give him far too much satisfaction.

“I wouldn’t expect you to, my dear witcher. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get you cleaned up and feeling good all the same!”

He grunted. Jaskier knew that was meant to mean that he felt perfectly fine, thank you very much, but he ignored him, as per usual.

“Enough protesting. Get your perky white ass over here.”

***

Geralt didn’t protest as much as he normally would under different circumstances, but if he was being perfectly honest with himself, but he was still feeling rather like shit and he was sure whatever Jaskier had planned would help with that.

He walked over and sat next to his lark.

He wasn’t especially dirty, even after the fight, and they didn’t have the ability to bathe at the moment, so he was curious just what Jaskier intended to do.

The bard was rummaging through his pack, looking for something and growing increasingly more annoyed when the item continued to elude him.

After a moment that lasted far longer than it should have Jaskier lifted the item into the air with a triumphant “Ah ha!” It was a brush, a wooden and intricately carved thing that Jaskier had used many times before to care for Geralt’s hair.

Though at the moment it only served to confuse Geralt further. His hair wasn’t dirty, there was no blood or monster guts covering his person or his hair, and it was relatively knot-free.

“My hair doesn’t need to me brushed,” he said.

Jaskier gave him an odd look. “Maybe not. I mean, I think you’re wrong. There’s never been a time in your life when your hair couldn’t use to be brushed, but for you it’s not too bad.”

“Then why do you have the brush?” Geralt was tiring of this conversation already. Was the bard being bewildering and obtuse on purpose?

But Jaskier gave him a look like he was the one being an idiot here. “To brush your hair, obviously.”

“But it doesn’t need it.” Melitele’s tits, hadn’t they just covered this?

“Maybe, but that doesn’t need it wouldn’t feel nice.”

He grunted. Witchers didn’t need to ‘feel nice.’ That was Jaskier’s hedonistic pursuit in life, not his.

“Come on.” He patted the ground in front of him, indicating Geralt was to sit there.

“Hmm.”

“You already agreed. Now get over here.”

“Did I?” He had not.

“Yeah you did.”

“Hmm.”

“Perhaps not in so many words, but you knew what you were getting into when you let me travel with you.”

“So, I agreed to let you groom me like a horse anytime you please all those years ago when I let you start following me around like a needy dog.”

“Now you’re getting it!” The brad chirped, ignoring the insult. “Now come on. Don’t make me ask again,” he scolded gesting at Geralt with the brush.

Jaskier could out-stubborn the gods so him continuing to protest was only succeeding in delaying the inevitable and irritating them both.

Geralt sat on the ground between Jaskier’s legs, where he had indicated, 

Jaskier took to his self-inflicted task almost as soon as Geralt was in reach, gently tugging the dirty hair band out and combing his fingers through the bottom of his hair, pulling the less difficult tangles out.

He kept up his stroking and gentle movements, using the brush to comb through the harder knots and smoothing out the ends.

Several minutes passed like this and Geralt could feel himself slowly relaxing, his shoulders untensing and his head drooping forward slightly as his eyelids fought to stay open.

Jaskier hummed a low tune that Geralt didn’t recognize. One he was in the process of composing, perhaps? The lark was very talented at that, not that Geralt would tell him so. His ego didn’t need any more help.

Eventually, the brush was set aside and Jaskier began stroking though Geralt’s hair, now smooth and free of tangles. Sectioning off top of hair, Jaskier separated it into several sections and began plaiting it, continuing humming his melody.

The gentle tugs on his scalp and the tenderness of the bard’s movements were soothing, lulling Geralt further into calmness. It was hard to be tense in with such talented fingers touching him.

His bard knew how to make him feel nice and though it was unnecessary, Geralt could admit that it was at times appreciated, as it was now.

It was nice to know that there was someone out that unafraid of him, perfectly willing to dote on him like a cherished lover and to take care of him, no matter the fact that he could take care of himself.

All too soon the top plait was done, a five-sectioned braid that would keep the hair out of his eyes and would draw Jaskier’s eyes to him in the days to come. Geralt’s hair really was lovely when it wasn’t matted like the fur of a stray dog.

Neither of them moved for a moment, unable or unwilling to break the serenity of the moment. It was just them cocooned in their bubble of peace and both feared that any motions would let back in the world they had fought so hard to push out.

They watched the moon begin her ascent as they sat together, taking comfort at their closeness. Geralt was still leaning back onto Jaskier who had, at some point, moved his arms so they he had Geralt in a protective embrace.

The bard was the first one to break the stillness.

He tugged Geralt up, wordlessly, as he maneuvered the half-asleep witcher into the sleeping bag that they shared more often than not. Snuggling up close, he stroked the witcher’s hair, muttering soft nothings under his breath, too quiet for Geralt to understand without effort but he felt the sentiment all the same.

Then, when Geralt’s breathing had leveled out and slowed, when Jaskier was mostly sure Geralt was asleep he whispered into his back, “I’ll always protect you, my dear witcher, even when you won’t protect yourself.

“And I you, my lark,” Geralt whispered back as they both sank into the sweet comfort of a sleep lying next to the one person in the universe who was uniquely yours.

It wasn’t an ‘I love you,’ not yet. 

But it was close and for tonight that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


End file.
